


shake me til you wake me

by achilleees



Series: the genre that is unrelated jackparse daddy kink fics [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Daddy Kink, Drug Use, M/M, Pre-Canon, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-23
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-28 16:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6336601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/achilleees/pseuds/achilleees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack nearly guns it straight into a mailbox, he’s so eager to get Parse home and out of his car and away from this conversation. “Just do what I say for once in your life!” Jack says. “Jesus, why can’t you -” He’s got his fingers so tight on the steering wheel his knuckles have gone white.</p><p>“Behave?” Parse says.</p><p> </p><p>or; when your friend says they like daddy kink, you goddamn write 4K of daddy kink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	shake me til you wake me

**Author's Note:**

> still taking jack/parse [tumblr](http://achilleees.tumblr.com/) prompts, though i can't promise if or when i'm filling them.
> 
> fyi to the anon who requested body-swap - i'm working on it. it's coming along.
> 
> title from justin bieber's baby for funsies.

Jack has Parse backed up against the hotel room door, grinding in stuttering waves into the thigh Jack has wedged between his legs, and it’s so hot Jack honestly thinks he’s going to pass out.

It’s not the first time they’ve done this, but it’s the first time they’ve been sober. Usually they’re horizontal in the back of Jack’s car, Kent mouthing sloppily at Jack’s lips, catching his cheek about half the time. Jack’s hands are big enough that he can wrap one more or less around both their dicks, and he alternates watching Kent’s face go slack and worshipful and his dick spilling all over Jack’s knuckles when he comes.

It’s weird, not tasting vodka and beer on Parse’s lips when Jack pries them apart with his tongue, but not bad-weird. Just… weird.

It’s Parse’s idea, anyway, so he doesn’t feel like he’s fucking things up. Parse had looked across the table at team breakfast, licked his yogurt spoon with deliberately lewd slowness, and run his foot over Jack’s calf. Jack had immediately caught on, flushing red but nodding jerkily to say _yeah. Yeah, let’s do this_.

It’s good. God, it’s good. Parse is so small against him, all compact muscle, and the way he whimpers when Jack bites at the join of his neck and collar is _wonderful_ , makes Jack harder than he thinks he’s ever been. He wants to burrow into Parse’s warmth and stay there, wants to get off almost as badly as he wants to stay here, just like this, forever.

But his neck is starting to ache a little from craning it down, so Jack slides his hands down under Parse’s thighs and - well, first he stops to consider whether this could strain his back at all, but he benches more than Parse on the regular, so fuck it - lifts him completely off the ground.

Parse gives a startled laugh and wraps his legs around Jack’s waist, lining up their dicks in a way that makes Jack’s eyes roll back. “Jesus, I know you get off being bigger than me, but -”

“Shut up,” Jack says, catching Parse’s lips in a rough kiss just to keep him from talking.

It’s Parse, though. The only time he shuts up is when he’s asleep. “Nah, but that’s a sweet move, buddy,” he says, crossing his ankles, thighs clamped around Jack’s hips. “What kinda game tape are you watching to perfect that one?”

It’s a shot in the dark, Jack _knows_ it is, but still he blushes. Damn his mother for giving him her fair skin.

“Oh shit,” Parse says, laughing against Jack’s lips. “Did you get that from porn? Are you Jenna Jameson-ing me?”

“Shut up,” Jack says again, which comes out annoyingly whiny, ugh. He can’t spare a hand to cup Parse’s dick and distract him, but he does grind hard into it, making Parse’s head drop back into the door with a thump and granting Jack one moment of blissful peace.

Just one, though.

“Fuuuck,” Kent groans, still laughing like the enormous tool he is. “Oh yeah, just like that, give it to me, big boy. Let me feel that big cock.”

“God dammit,” Jack says, and he squeezes Kent’s thighs warningly and thrusts into the vee of his hips, rocking Parse back against the door. “Why can’t you ever behave, you little jackass?”

“Why don’t you _make_ me behave?” Parse says, grinning wide. And then -

Jack feels a pit develop in his stomach, and in one frozen moment, he knows Parse is going to fuck him up in the way that only he can.

Parse adds, breathy and smug, “ _Daddy_.”

And yep, just like that, Jack’s coming in his pants. It’s sudden and intense and for the duration of it, Jack feels so good he doesn’t know how to deal with it. Then reality crashes down, and it _sucks_.

“Holy shit,” Parse says, realizing what just happened. Not like he could miss it, the way they’re locked together, every minute shift of muscle detectable. “Uh, Zimms?”

Jack drops Parse like he’s on fire, scrambling to escape the clasp of his legs, so abruptly that Parse has to rush to get his feet underneath him so he doesn’t hit the floor hard. He loses his footing anyway, ends up seated with his back to the door, and it’s from there that he stares up at Jack, wide-eyed and open-mouthed and for once without a smirk.

Jack can feel himself going red, blotchy and unhappy, and he doesn’t even waste the time finding a clean pair of underwear, just grabs his entire bag and takes it into the bathroom with him. He’s going to take the world’s longest shower, either until both of them forget this ever happened or until he drowns in there. The latter seems likelier.

“Zimms,” Parse says, and Jack doesn’t want to identify the soft, unfamiliar tone to his voice before he’s got the water running, drowning him out.

 

When he finally drags himself out of the shower, he pops two Ativan and stares at himself in the mirror. Once upon a time, he made a vow to himself never to let specific events with his family and friends push him to self-medication. This is his burden to bear, not theirs, and he’s not laying this at their feet, whether or not they even know enough to feel the weight of it.

But maybe he’s not that guy anymore, maybe he’s not capable of shouldering this weight without the crutch of chemical courage. The sick feeling in his stomach, the little niggle in the back of his head telling him Parse will think he’s a freak, Parse will never respect him again, Parse will either laugh at him or he _won’t_ which is the only thing worse - that pity, that discomfort…

It’s a long time before Jack can muster the willpower to open the door.

Parse is sitting cross-legged on the bed with his laptop open in front of him when he comes out. He looks up at Jack, mouth open to speak.

“Practice,” Jack says.

Parse blinks.

“I’ll see you downstairs,” Jack says, and flees.

 

So like, daddy issues are a thing. It’s not like Jack doesn’t know he has them, and he shudders to think what his therapist would say if he ever told her he came like a gunshot just at the word. Which is why he never will - he doesn’t _want_ to examine this analytically, he has no interest in discussing exactly what part of his brain finds it so goddamn hot when Parse calls him that.

It’s just - not fair. Jack has a relationship with his dad, sometimes good, sometimes not, though not because of anything Bob has ever knowingly done to him. Jack has supportive, loving parents and a good home life and he’s not the one between them whose father walked out on him when he was three.

So how come he’s the one with the kink?

God dammit.

 

“Hey,” Parse says in the locker room after the game.

“Not a good time,” Jack growls, shoving his gear into his bag, pissed about the loss on top of fucking up everything with Parse.

“Duh,” Parse says. “Wanted to know if you wanna shoot some hoops to wind down.”

Jack looks up and meets Parse’s eyes, grey and cool and familiar. There’s nothing in them to indicate Parse is freaking out about - what happened earlier, nothing to suggest he even remembers.

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, and despite himself, a bubble of relief swells in his stomach.

Sometimes, Parse can be a really chill bro. He gives Jack unbelievable amounts of shit on a regular basis, but sometimes…

Jack smiles, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.

Maybe things are gonna be okay after all.

 

This idiotic complacency lasts for a few days, until the team is celebrating a home win at Brownie’s parents’ place. Jack’s drunk and loose and he doesn’t protest when Parse nudges him upstairs when everyone’s distracted playing Kings.

Jack opens his mouth against Parse’s with no small sense of relief, grateful that he can still have this, that Parse still wants - whatever Parse wants, Jack has never really understood the limits of how much Parse will give him or why.

Parse fumbles at his belt, either more eager than normal or more nervous, batting away Jack’s hands when he tries to help. “Let me,” he says, finally getting it open and tugging down Jack’s jeans.

“Kay,” Jack agrees, obediently keeping his hands off as Parse pulls out his cock, though his hands flex with the urge to repay the favor.

Then Parse sinks to his knees, right there in the guest bedroom with about forty of their friends and teammates downstairs.

“Holy shit,” Jack says, because Parse has never - this isn’t -

“Shh,” Parse says, curling his hand around the base of Jack’s cock and giving a few pumps. “Can I…?”

“Yeah,” Jack says immediately, because he’s not dumb enough to turn this down, even if it’s making his stomach writhe with something like anxiety - not quite, but close.

Parse moves forward immediately, mouth open, and it’s so fucking hot Jack has to close his eyes to try to compose himself, even if it only sort of works. And god, when he gets his lips around the head of Jack’s cock, nursing it gently with his tongue - not deep, but soft and warm and slick, _perfect_ …

Jack can’t help but drop his hand into Parse’s hair and hold it tight.

Parse moans against his cock, which is just _unreasonably_ hot, and then he pulls off and looks up at Jack and says, “ _Daddy_ ,” in this hoarse, soft voice, so unlike his normal tone.

For a second, it’s like a punch to the gut in the best way, and his cock goes even harder in Parse’s hand. Then Jack just feels fucking sick, because he doesn’t know if this is mockery or pity but he hates it just as much either way.

“Fuck off,” he says, shoving Parse away and dragging up his pants. “Seriously? Jesus Christ.”

“Jack,” Parse says, “I -”

“We’re not doing this,” Jack says, chest viciously tight, and he grabs his Solo cup and leaves Parse on his knees in the dark, fumbling for his travel capsule of Ativan and washing down two with vodka and Red Bull right there on the stairs.

 

So that sucks.

 

There’s probably other root causes of that kind of kink rather than just his relationship with his father. Captain Control Freak, they call him, and yeah, he likes to be in charge. Likes to take care of people, and if that’s some projected desire borne of his inability to feel in control of himself, he doesn’t need a therapist to tell him that.

Jack doesn’t know why he gets off on it, why the idea of pinning Parse down and making him beg for his daddy’s cock is on his mind more often than not when he’s got his dick in his hand now. Doesn’t want to think about it - if he could give it up, he’d do it in a heartbeat, escape the sick twist of guilt and shame that follows every orgasm.

It’s not that he doesn’t think Parse can take care of himself, that’s not the point. He just… wants to be the one to do it. Wants to fill all the holes of Parse’s life so he never wants for anything that Jack can’t provide.

Is that really so bad?

 

The next time he sees Parse at practice, everything seems to have gone back to normal, but Jack isn’t falling for it again. He doesn’t know what Parse is up to or why, but he’s not Parse’s pet project or his punching bag, and Parse isn’t getting any more chances to make Jack feel even worse.

Not that he doesn’t try. He’s always trying to get Jack alone now, inviting him over after games, hinting whenever he has free time to hang out. Jack doesn’t _get_ it, why he’s trying so hard, what his angle is, and he knows consciously that Parse isn’t the kind of asshole who would intentionally upset Jack but he’s just not letting up and Jack’s anxiety over it is a physical weight in his chest.

But eventually, Parse gives up, and that’s even worse.

Not just because he’s Jack’s best friend and Jack misses him, but because the look on his face when he turns to Jack after practice with his mouth open before snapping it shut, shoulders slumping, is the worst fucking thing in the world.

 

“Hey,” Parse says after a game, “my billet mom has some meeting at Jackie’s school so she can’t pick me up. Do you…?”

Jack feels a spike of guilt - he hadn’t really stopped to consider how Parse was getting home since he stopped giving him rides, and Mrs. Olsen is already so busy, he knows - shortly followed by a spike of panic. But he says, “Okay,” because he _does_ miss Parse, fiercely, and this can’t go on and he knows it.

In the car, Parse is fidgety, snapping his gum and tapping his finger on the armrest, constantly adjusting his seatbelt and his hat, changing radio stations every thirty seconds even though he knows Jack fucking hates that.

“Parse,” Jack bites out the tenth time Parse does it.

“Sorry,” Parse says, jerking his hand back. He makes it about two minutes - two agitated, knee-jiggling minutes - before he forgets and starts doing it again, and Jack may not like the shitty pop music on the radio but he’d rather listen to Katie Parry or whatever than listen to ten seconds of music at a time.

“Kent,” he snaps.

Parse yanks his hand back like he’s been burnt. “Sorry,” he mutters again, grabbing his jeans with both hands to keep from doing it again.

“Crisse,” Jack says. “You don’t have to…” He runs out of words, because he really should have planned that sentence before starting it. “Just chill, okay?”

The look Parse shoots him is not impressed, to say the least. “You’re asking me to _chill_? You’re fucking full of shit, you know that?”

Jack doesn’t know what to say to that, because yes, he does know that, but he doesn’t think that’s the answer Parse is looking for.

“I have no fucking clue what you want from me,” Parse says loudly, full of acid and desperation. “What the _fuck,_ seriously.”

“Yes you do,” Jack says.

Parse sneers. “Yeah, you want me to ignore -”

“Yes!” Jack says. “Why can’t you just -”

“Because I don’t want to!” Parse says. “Let’s talk about -”

Jack nearly guns it straight into a mailbox, he’s so eager to get Parse home and out of his car and away from this conversation. “Just do what I say for once in your life!” Jack says. “Jesus, why can’t you -” He’s got his fingers so tight on the steering wheel his knuckles have gone white.

“Behave?” Parse says.

“Yes,” Jack sighs.

“I’m trying to, and you’re not letting me,” Parse says. “That’s what I’ve _been_ trying to do, why won’t you just let me?”

Jack doesn’t know what he means, can’t interpret the frustrated, helpless tone in his voice. He doesn’t say anything, and they pull up outside Parse’s billet parents’ house.

Parse doesn’t get out though, stays slumped in the passenger seat. “I’m trying to be good for you,” he eventually says. “I think I could, if you let me.”

Jack still doesn’t speak, and Parse climbs out of the car with his bag and walks inside, shoulders drooping, not looking back.

Jack has no freaking clue what he’s doing, at this point. What either of them are doing.

 

Their next practice, Parse is weirdly well-behaved, quiet and attentive when he would normally be zoning out while Morrissey goes over his notes for the defense, changing at his locker without whipping anyone with a rolled up towel, not even singing to himself while he waits his turn on the warm-up drill.

When Jack is sitting on the bench taking a breather, Parse skates over and offers him his favorite color of Gatorade.

“Thanks,” Jack says, checking first that the bottle isn’t rigged to spill all over his face when he tips it up and surprised to find it isn’t. He eyes Parse over the top of it while he drinks, not sure what to think of this display.

“Yeah,” Parse says, meeting his eyes frankly, expression intent.

Jack doesn’t know what it means and doesn’t know what Parse is trying to tell him. He feels stupid and slow like it should be obvious - it probably is obvious - but for the life of him he can’t make it come together.

Parse is silent the whole way home. He doesn’t try to change the radio station once.

Jack stays parked in the driveway for a few minutes after Parse gets out, puzzling through all the clues. He thinks he’s starting to figure it out, but he needs a little more time.

 

Parse is Parse, though, and if Jack isn’t making him behave then he’s not going to for long. So the final nail in the proverbial coffin comes that weekend, when Jack’s billet family is all at church and he’s already snoozed his alarm four times, drowsing in the patch of sunlight from his window.

He distantly hears a door open and shut downstairs, and then footsteps on the stairs, and a moment later his door creaks open.

He cracks his eyes and looks over at Parse. “Door wasn’t locked?” he says muzzily.

“Like I don’t know where the spare key is hidden,” Parse snorts, and he shuts and locks Jack’s bedroom door behind him and climbs into the bed.

Jack is still mostly asleep, and he kisses back without even a token protest, awkwardly twisted up in his sheets before he frees his arms and wraps them around Parse’s waist, pulling him close.

It’s warm and soft and comfortable, and Jack loses himself in it for a long time, just enjoying Parse’s lips and tongue and the minty freshness of his mouth before he realizes he hasn’t brushed his own teeth yet.

“Wait,” he starts to say, twisting his face away, but Parse follows his lips with a plaintive noise and Jack stops trying for another few minutes of dizzyingly deep kissing. “Um,” he finally says, “I feel like I should brush my teeth.”

“S’fine,” Kent says, chasing his mouth, kissing him greedy and long and slow.

“Parse,” Jack says.

Kent kisses him again, then trails his lips down Jack’s neck, kissing a soft trail down to his collar. “Daddy,” he says.

Jack is wide awake in an instant, gut dropping in a way that he wishes he weren’t so familiar with. “God _dammit,_ ” he says, fingers twisting in Parse’s hair and yanking him away.

Parse’s head lists back without any resistance, lips parting and eyelids falling half shut. For some reason, Jack freezes at the sight.

After a moment, Parse opens his eyes fully. “If you want me to, I’ll leave now,” he says. “I’ll do it because - because you asked me to. If that’s what you want, I’ll do it.”

He’s blushing, and it’s not the first time Jack’s seen it, because even someone with as limited a sense of shame as Parse can’t get through puberty unscathed. But it is the most intense, the reddest Jack has ever seen him, and it doesn’t make sense for him to be putting himself through this for the sake of either mocking or pacifying Jack. Parse _hates_ feeling vulnerable.

“If you let me,” Parse says, voice going shy in a way that Jack has never heard, “I think I could be so good for you.”

Jack’s breath punches out of him all at once. He stares at Parse, feeling disconcertingly like he’s never seen him before.

“You can’t just do this because I want it,” Jack says finally. “You have to want it too.”

“I wouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t,” Parse says.

He still looks nervous, and Jack starts stroking his hair before he realizes he’s moving, smoothing down his cowlick, running through those fine blond strands. “I don’t get it,” Jack says. “You never listen to _anyone_.”

“Well, Jack Zimmermann,” Kent says, “I guess that means you’re not just anyone.”

Jack pulls him into a kiss and rolls them over in one motion, pinning Parse beneath him on the mattress. He makes quick work of Kent’s clothes, peeling them off him reverently and taking a long, appreciative look at him after, Kent naked and beautiful and perfect on his sheets.

Jack’s hands are big enough to cuff both of Kent’s wrists in one of them, and he pins them over Kent’s head, leaning in and murmuring in his ear, “Say it.”

“Daddy,” Kent gasps out immediately, bucking his hips up to meet Jack’s body above him. He whines. “Daddy, please -”

“Shh, baby,” Jack says, using his free hand to press down on Kent’s belly, pinning him down. “You want to be good for your daddy, don’t you?”

Kent nods so quickly Jack worries he’s going to give himself whiplash.

“Then you gotta be still for me,” Jack says, kissing his forehead, his temple, his cheeks, his lips. “Can you do that?”

Kent freezes like a statue, not a muscle moving.

Part of Jack wants to laugh, but he can’t bear the thought of Parse opening up to him like this only to have Jack laugh in his face, what he would think Jack thought of him. Besides, it’s so fucking _hot_ , how hard he’s trying to be good for him, how well he’s doing.

“That’s my good boy,” Jack praises, which elicits a whimper from Kent that makes Jack’s dick twitch so hard he’s worried about wrenching a muscle. “What do you want, Parse? You can ask, I want you to, wanna give you whatever you need.”

Jack can tell that Kent’s thinking about taking things further than they’ve ever gone, asking for Jack’s fingers or mouth or even his dick, but he’s weirdly relieved when Parse doesn’t take that leap. They’ve already gone so far past normal, and he wants to get there with Parse, but not all at once. It’d be too much for both of them, he knows.

“Can you jerk off on me?” Parse says in that same shy voice from before.

Jack groans, shoving his sweatpants and boxers down to mid-thigh and straddling Parse’s waist, wrapping his hand around himself and giving a few tugs. “You want your daddy’s come, baby? Where do you want it? Want me to come on your pretty face?” The thought of it is incendiary, pushing him embarrassingly quickly towards release. “Or on your chest, so I can rub it in and you can wear it on your skin all day?”

Kent gives this fantastic, full-body whine, and still his hips don’t lift off the bed, and Jack couldn’t be more proud. “I - I don’t - do you, um - daddy, I don’t -”

“Shh, baby, I’ll take care of you,” Jack promises. “I’ve got you.”

He sits back on his heels, stripping his cock hard and fast, twisting his wrist with every stroke. Kent watches his hand raptly, mouth open in a pretty gape, and in turn Jack watches Kent’s face, the way his eyes go all glass-bright and his cheeks flush.

He’s still watching Kent when he comes, the way he swallows as Jack stripes his chest with it, the way he licks his lips like he can’t wait to get a taste. Jack groans and swipes his fingers through it, offering them to Kent, who immediately opens his mouth and sucks them in, giving these ridiculously hot little moans like he’s so grateful for it.

“Good boy,” Jack murmurs, pulling his hand away once he’s clean and rubbing his come into Kent’s skin until it’s all soaked in. “There’s my good boy.”

Kent is _trembling_ with need by this point, and Jack can see the sweat winding down his temples with the effort of staying still. It’s amazing, makes him feel amazing, and he wraps his hand around Kent’s cock and says, “You can move, baby.”

Immediately, Kent bucks his hips up into Jack’s grip, graceless in a way Jack rarely sees him. He’s remarkably poised for a teenage boy, on the ice and off, and the way he’s falling apart under Jack is the most beautiful sight in the world.

“Daddy,” Kent whimpers, clutching at Jack’s biceps, fingernails dragging over the backs of his arms. “Please, can I -”

God, he’s _made_ for this, and any doubt Jack feels that Kent is doing this for his benefit melts away at this realization. It comes naturally to Kent, submission, and Jack realizes retrospectively that Kent’s brattiness has never actually crossed over to disobedience, and if Jack said _jump_ Kent would say _fuck you, asshole_ but he’d do it, too.

And apparently, if Jack said, _jump baby_ , Kent would melt into pliant, breathless need and do it without question.

“Yeah, baby,” Jack says lowly, “yeah, baby, come for me, sweetheart.”

It’s fucking gorgeous when he does, arching up with a whine and spilling all over Jack’s hand and his belly, overlaying Jack’s come with his own.

“God,” Jack says, leaning in and kissing him, Kent panting a bit too hard to kiss back properly. “God, you’re so good for me.”

Kent smiles back, bright and happy. “Thank you, daddy,” he murmurs, stroking clumsily over Jack’s hair. “I want to be.”


End file.
